Routines

I haven’t seen the ghost, but Tiffany says it wore a dark gown and looked maybe seventeen. All I know is that Tiffany swears she caught it rifling through our sock drawer, and she says that this ghost is to blame for all of our missing socks. Always one sock, never the whole pair. Last week, one half of my favorite pair went missing. The sock is navy blue with Taz breaking a golf club over his knee and GOLF IS A FOUR LETTER WORD underneath him. When I was a kid, I figured that I’d be swinging the sticks with my buddies every weekend by the time I was an adult. Problem is, all of my buddies either moved away or we lost touch. I have clubs, but Tiffany won’t play with me. 

***

Wednesday’s sex night. Afterwards, we roll out of bed and scratch tallies in the wall if we finish. You’d think my tallies would be higher, since I’m a man and it’s generally easier for men to finish, but they’re not.

One Wednesday, she marks a tally, and I stay in bed. She comes back and says, “It’s weird to have a ghost. New building. Far as I know, nobody died here. And there’s a ton of other apartments. What I want to know is: why our bedroom?” 

She faces me, so I roll over to face her. I want her to understand. I want her to know that I’m trying. 

I say, “Maybe it steals socks from the neighbors?” 

“No way am I asking. I’ll look insane.’

“You think the ghost watches us? Like when we’re doing it?” My tallies look like they’re about to jump off of the wall and run away. 

“I don’t know how that kind of thing works.” 

My eyes narrow on our depleting sock drawer. I say, “I just hope we find them one day. Especially my Taz sock, maybe balled up in a crawl space or something.”

“Or maybe folded all neat.”

She rolls back over and clicks off the light, and sometimes I wonder if the ghost is a lie.  Sometimes I wonder if she’s the one hiding our socks. 

***

On Saturdays, Tiffany grabs coffee with her friends while I edit copy in the living room. One Saturday, she comes home with a flyer. “For an amateur golf league in Dyker Heights.” 

“That’s a little far,” I say. 

“You’ve got those clubs. You should use them. Meet other golfers.” 

“Or you could play with me. You would have fun. We could even make it a thing.”

She sighs, drops the flyer into the garbage, and says, “We really need to get you out of this haunted apartment.”

“You know what I need?”

“What?” 

“I need to hear the sock drawer open. I need to tip toe into our bedroom, and I need to catch that ghost in the act.”

“What would any of that solve?”

“I’d wrap my hands around its throat.”

“You can’t strangle a ghost,” she says.

And maybe she’s right, but I keep going, even as she starts walking away. “I’d slam it against our tally-marked wall. I wouldn’t let off until it gave us back our socks.”

“I need to lay down,” she says, and closes the bedroom door behind her.

***

Some Wednesdays, she puts on a golf skirt and I dress like a caddy. I follow her around the apartment, lugging my clubs, pretending that we’re at the Augusta National. Tiffany’s only a year older than me, but we act like she’s fifty-eight and I’m nineteen. In the living room, I wet my finger and tell her, “Light breeze to the east, ma’am. I’d use the four wood and aim a little past that sycamore.” 

We already moved the furniture for what happens next. She nods, tees up an imaginary ball, and swings. First time we tried this, she held the club wrong. She swung like it hurt. Now, she does much better. I say, “Great shot, ma’am,” and then she recites the lines I wrote for her: “Your arms must be strong from lifting that bag all day. Do you mind if I have a touch? They make these golf skirts so short, you can see everything when I bend over to tee a ball. Whoopsie, did you look? My husband cut my allowance, so I have no money for a tip. Meet me in the sandtrap and I’ll make it up to you.” 

These nights always end in a big tally from me.

***

Tiffany thinks I should keep wearing the other golf sock. We have so many mismatched pairs but won’t throw them away, on the off chance their missing companions return. Tiffany says that nobody would even notice if I just wore the one sock with another because I don’t wear shorts. Tiffany wears mismatched socks almost every day now. 

***

After breakfast, I usually go into the office and edit the bad news until I can’t take it anymore. Then I pull out my golf bag and set up a mirror and practice my putt. I do this for at least an hour. Then I eat a bodega sandwich and walk home. I’m always back first because Tiffany works late, but I’ve been taking longer and longer routes.

She owns a trampoline park in Queens. She’s a brilliant entrepreneur, which I think has something to do with why she won’t marry me yet. She has too many ambitions and won’t stop until she’s conquered the world. I’m happy with my editing job. It’s steady, sometimes I work from home, and I read the bad news before everybody else. There’s a thrill in reading the bad news before everybody else, and there’s an even bigger thrill in deciding how that bad news is delivered.

One day, I pass Tiffany’s gym. Inside, children in grippy socks hop around on trampolines and nail each other with foam balls. Their parents whistle and cheer. A six year old’s birthday party commences, with pizza and singing. I spot Tiffany behind the counter. She’s on the phone. It’s been years since I visited her at work. She notices me and her face turns into what must be a scowl. “What’s up?” she says, her hand over the receiver.

“Just wanted to say hi.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “Pretty busy today,” she says, and continues booking a party with somebody on the other end of the line. Her eyes dart between me and the computer. One of her employees asks if she can help me with anything. 

“He’s just saying hi,” Tiffany says. I tell her employee, “No thank you,” and mouth Goodbye to Tiffany.

***

Another sock goes missing, and I look for it under the furniture. I search every cabinet. I even check the heat vents. I begin eyeing the garbage. Then one more sock goes missing and I actually dig through the bin while Tiffany’s in the other room. I was very careful, very quiet. When she asks why I did it, I tell her I dropped my glasses. I know she doesn’t believe me.  

***

Eggs jump to fifteen dollars a carton, so I plan for oatmeal with blackberries and cinnamon. I leave the oatmeal on for too long and most of it turns brown and dries out. I scrape what I can into bowls and pass one to Tiffany. She’s reading the paper I edit, which we get delivered for free, and what’s strange about that is she never reads in the morning. 

“Are you going to eat?” 

“I’m not hungry.”

“Because if something’s wrong you can tell me.” 

“Does something need to be wrong?”

“Of course not.”

She folds the newspaper and finishes the rest of her coffee. “Sometimes I think that is what you need. Sometimes I think you can’t handle it being any other way.”

I spoon hot globs of burnt oatmeal into my mouth. I crunch blackberries between my molars. I crunch the blackberries as hard as I can. 

“I’m sorry,” Tiffany says. She gets up and kisses me on the cheek, like I’m her uncle. She says, “I probably just need a few hours to myself. You ever feel that way?”

“Sometimes.” Although I can’t remember a single instance. 

“A little nap in the party room before the kids show up and I’ll be great.”

“I can’t eat anymore of this,” I say, and drop my spoon. “It tastes like shit.”

She just takes her keys from the hook and opens the front door. 

I say, “Maybe I’m not the problem.” And still she doesn't respond. She slams the door behind her. 

I tear through the apartment. I don’t find anything. 

***

I wash the chicken breasts and boil the couscous and preheat the oven for the asparagus. Something moves in the corner of my eye, but nothing’s there. I hear a creak in the bedroom. I rush over and our sock drawer remains undisturbed. 

The front door opens, and I find Tiffany in the kitchen surveying the uncooked food on the counter. She has this look on her face, like when she used to smoke and really wanted a cigarette. I tense up, but she says, “I got something for you,” and hands me a small gift bag with a ribbon. Inside of the bag there’s a brand new pair of the Taz socks. 

“Had them sent to the gym. Same-day delivery.” 

I finger the smooth polyester letters. GOLF IS A FOUR LETTER WORD.

“Try them on,” she says. 

And I do. I kick my shoes across the kitchen and change into them right away. I wiggle my toes, and Tiffany’s already headed for the bedroom. I abandon our half-cooked meal and kiss her. We fall on top of each other. She grins and says, “Today’s not Wednesday.” which is true, but I don’t care. I don’t even need the caddy outfit. 

I leave the Taz socks on. Tiffany and I go for an hour, all sweaty and panting. Then we each scratch a tally in the wall. I put my arm around her and ask if she wants to go another round. “You never want to go another round,” she says, which is true, but I’m thinking that maybe it doesn’t matter if the ghost is real or not. I’m thinking that what really matters is if we catch our breath and scratch more tallies in the wall.